


Counterclockwise Rotation

by orphan_account



Category: Hiveswap Friendsim, Homestuck
Genre: Barely Anyone In This Is A Good Person, Blackmail, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Gen, Grimdark, Jadebloods (Homestuck), Lynera is a serial murderer that's a pretty big content warning I've gotta get out of the way, Multi, Murder, One-Sided Relationship, Other, Quadrant Confusion, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:55:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22883662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Two jadeblooded trolls play a dangerous game.~The lights are down, and the actors are all in their places. Each and every one of them has a role to play in the coming show, but none of them know it.Content warnings will be at the top of each chapter, and general warnings for the work are: murder, discussion of murder, discussion of sex and sexuality, violence, blackmail, gaslighting, transphobia, extremely unhealthy relationships, drugs and drug use, and depictions of a violent character in a (somewhat) sympathetic light.Updates whenever.Latest chapter: Aglow With Barite
Relationships: Tags Will Be Added When They Occur
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	1. Prelude: A Little Death

**Author's Note:**

> Prelude Warnings: Graphic Description of Violence, Propaganda,

_Every bloodcaste has its place in society._  
  
The knife plunges downwards again, tearing through skin and tissue like paper. On the screen in the corner of the room, the informational tape continues playing.  
  
 _Everyone has a part to play in Alternia’s empire, and everyone is the master of their own destiny!_  
  
Olive blood spurts upwards, staining everything it touches. Pulpy gore ripped from the body of its owner litters the floor.  
 _  
However...there isn’t room in this world for trolls who don’t follow the rules.  
_  
The corpse hasn’t moved for a long time, but the knife continues repeating its downward movement. Over and over, the blade falls. Each time it does, the body becomes less and less recognisable. One would be hard-pressed to recognise it as something that had ever been alive.  
 _  
There are nearly infinite choices for those who stay within the lines. Life can be beautiful._  
  
A musical cue plays, and begins to swell. The knife’s motion has changed and is being used to saw back and forth across the epiglottis. Its rhythim is fierce and unwavering, and both blade and arm move in perfect tandem until they pass through bone. The head of the poor soul on the floor has been cleaved from its mooring. Only then does the arm cease its relentless movement. A few seconds later, the tape comes to a halt suddenly.  
  
The murmuring words of an underground river fall on unhearing ears. Blood pools and soaks into the dry stone as if attempting to quench its insatiable thirst. It is never enough. Nothing is ever enough, and it would be foolish to believe that anything in this world could ever prove otherwise. The lives of trolls and monsters and those who lie in between are inherently a struggle to live, if only for one more sunset. Blood and sand both pour down the inside of the hourglass, mingling and clumping together--but their movement is surely that of a decent. Someday the time that has so generously been given will end. Everything that breathes understands this fact.  
  
Affection and love are occupational hazards that come with mortal personage. Nothing brings more risk than revealing one’s true self to another. You would avoid it if you could, and you’ve certainly tried your damnedest. You’ve entombed yourself both literally and metaphorically, and had the impeccable fortune of being born into the sole caste not required to engage in physical coupling. Your chest is filled to the brim with disgust and loathing for your pathetic nature, for the feelings that will someday prove to be your damnation. The knife in your left hand feels light and flimsy, and so does the head you’re clenching in your right.  
  
Your name is Lynera Skalbi, and you are a member of the Jubilant Cloister in the brooding caverns of Alternia’s northwestern plain region. Your name is Lynera Skalbi, and you try your best. You really do. However, despite this fact--you are a murderer.  
  
None of your fellow jades are aware of this fact yet. No one on the surface is either.  
  
It would be disastrous if anyone did find out. You can’t allow that.  
  
It would be so much easier to just stop...and yet…

_“Like the baseless fabric of this vision,_

_The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,_

_The solemn temples, the great globe itself,_

_Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve_

_And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,_

_Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff_

_As dreams are made on, and our little life_

_Is rounded with sleep.”_   
  
_\--Neal Gaiman_

...you find yourself unable to do anything in your present situation.


	2. Chapter One: Tonic and Supertonic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a knocking at the door, but no one there to answer yet. The sheer quietness of it all is smothering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 Warnings: Suicidal Thoughts, Rationalization of Suicide, Drug Use, Drug-Related Death Mention, Description of an Animal Eating a Corpse

A young jadeblood crouches slightly with his ear pressed to the door of his respiteblock. Today, like innumerable days before it, is another opportunity to lose himself among the sprawling masses. Lanque Bombyx is nine sweeps and some-odd pedigrees old, and the proud owner of a wardrobe stuffed full of stylish clothing and a tongue armed to the teeth with sharp words. From the points of his horns to the toes of his shoes, he appears so crisp and angular that one would have to be forgiven if they assumed he was a cardboard standee.

That’s not to say that he isn’t handsome, of course. Lanque is as pretty as the Devil himself, and twice as mean. Despite having had his choice of lovers and vanities in the past though, he remains unsatisfied. Day after day and night after night, he does his best to try and fill the void in his soul--and when that fails, well, there’s always the small ziplock pack he keeps in the inside pocket of his blazer. The pills don't always do what it says on the tin, but they get the job done--they make the world a little more colorful, and the guys and gals a little less grating on Lanque's finer taste. 

Somewhere nearly a mile aboveground, the party must be starting. The sun will rise an hour or so after that. 

Lanque checks his watch idly. He can’t be sure if his cloisetermates are all asleep yet, and this frustrates him. He isn’t the type of troll to enjoy waiting.

Wanshi is likely asleep or in her room, and Daraya will probably be too. The only loose cannons when it comes to predictability are Bronya and Lynera, but Lanque knows that Skalbi is far less likely to be able to stop him from leaving. Despite being a head or so taller than Lanque, she isn’t particularly physically strong. Her posture is atrocious, and her form is soft where one would expect musculature to have formed after sweeps toiling in the cavern. It’s honestly a lucky break for her that she was born into the caste she was...and she doesn’t seem too put off about her eventual destiny either.

Lanque’s already-surly expression sours once more at the thought. Instead of undergoing the Rite of Exile, jadeblooded adults are expected to transfer offplanet and recloister on a moon supposedly called Vmeste. After this point, they are forbidden from concupiscent interaction and contact with the outside world. These factors are not the only reason Lanque views his future as a punishment worse than death, but even those comparatively small misfortunes will be hell enough.

Killing oneself would be the logical solution, of course. If Lanque were being entirely truthful with himself, he’d understand that he made that decision long ago. He hasn’t decided how exactly to do it, yet, but occasionally he drifts into morbid speculation while laying half-submerged in his coop.

It’ll have to be the day before the exodus, he knows. He isn’t suicidal, at least not actively--he enjoys life. He simply intends to get as much mileage out of his fleshy husk of a body before he vacates it. Sex...drugs...What’s the point of dying and leaving the living world behind without seizing life to the fullest? The only reason he has to kill himself is because he’s fleeing a fate much worse than any fleeting painful sensation he can experience here on Alternia. At least, that’s what he tells himself whenever he laughs off Daraya’s anxious questions about his future offplanet. Poor kid.

Daraya’s the only one he’ll really miss down here, he concludes. Maybe Wanshi too. The poor kids don’t know any better, and Lanque sure as hell hopes they won’t remember him for too long when he’s gone.

Reaching into his pocket, Lanque pulls out a capsule with a soft, lavender glow and raises it to eye level. It’s crude phanaxiquol, likely procured by some lowblood smoking a scampersting out of its nest and bashing it over the head several times. Phanaxiquol goes for a few thousand caegars per refined ounce, but that shit can only be afforded by do-nothing seadweller wastrels and the occasional cerulean who works their whole life to feed their habit. _It’s a pity, though,_ a certain friend told him a long time ago. _The crude stuff’s nowhere near as dangerous to mess around with, but it also can’t get you within a thousand miles of the real thing._

Lanque remembered replying cockily at the time. _What makes you so sure? Have you stooped so far as to share a trough with your clientele?_ He’d chuckled, swirling the ribbon of a balloon around his finger. _It’d really be too rich if you stooped that low, wouldn’t it._

His friend had shaken her head, her usually mirthful eyes devoid of life. _A girl I knew got hooked. Couldn’t afford another ounce, though. She died in front of me._

Perhaps there are some things in life not trying. Lanque downs the capsule dry, and swings open the door to his respiteblock. His face is expressionless as he walks purposefully down the dimly-lit hallway.

* * *

Lanque was correct in his assumption that Lynera would be stalking the halls of the caverns that night. However, he couldn’t have guessed that she would be searching for a lusus at an hour like this. 

He also couldn’t even have entertained the notion that she was doing so in order to dispose of the limbs and chassis of the oliveblooded deliveryman who had showed up to the cavern entrance only four hours earlier.

It had been an accident, really. That would be her excuse if she ever faced oblitigation at the talons of His Honorable Tyranny--not that very many of her casualties were of castes that could be considered high enough to justify standing trial. However, even though the majority of her actions would not be considered criminal under current Alternian legislaceration, they would not be looked kindly upon. According to schoolfeed, jadebloods are supposed to be biologically-inclined to follow their caste nature. This nature does not include repeated acts of brutal murder and dismemberment, or anything remotely similar. As far as Lynera knows, there has never been a case like hers recorded. She loves Alternia, she really does--but every time she does something like this, she knows that she’s a blight on the face of the Empire. A worthless worm not worth the soil she stands on.

She forces a nervous smile. _Breathe in. Breathe out. You’ve got this, Skalbi_. The feeling of watching eyes is all around her, pressing in closer and closer. Lynera clutches the unwieldy crate she’s carrying to her chest. 

The oliveblood was a deliveryman working for the small chain of stores where Wanshi liked to order books. Sanfro, Lynera thought. Lynera hadn’t been up to the surface in wanes, but that was how she liked it. She’d never really enjoyed the outside world--everything was too loud, too bright, too colorful. Even now, she avoids it when she can. 

She hadn’t been expecting the delivery. The olive was too cocky for his own good anyway...strolling right into the cavern. He’d even attempted to converse with her...asking after her cloistermates. He knew too much, he was asking too many questions--she was sure of it. Wanshi and Daraya were too young to understand the dangers of outsiders...having a man acting with such familiarity coming around...it’s bad enough of an influence when Entykk and Rxsell visit. It’s not like anyone saw the deliveryman before Lynera got to him either. He’d barely even put up a fight after she convinced him to come down to her study cave in order to “appraise” some of her “antique writing instruments.” 

His blood was thinner than most of her other victims. He was likely an anemic, sunce organ trauma was usually what trolls died of at Lynera’s hands. He’d barely put up a fight either. Even through her current fear and anxiety, Lynera can’t help but feel a small sense of disappointment that he’d expired so quickly.

Water drips down from the stalactites arhythmically, occasionally compelling her to anxiously check the bottom of the box for leaks. A single drop of sickly green might seem unassuming to anyone else, but the sight of even that much blood would surely force her to her crumple to her knees and hurl. Even the killer herself can’t help but find a detached sense of irony in the situation. It’s disgusting. It’s criminal. And yet, during the murder itself, she felt nothing. Just an icy sense of nothingness, as though she were not the one committing the atrocity coming apart in her hands. Now that the crime’s done, though, there’s a sense of fear and trepidation. No guilt, no remorse for what she’s done...but there is an acute feeling of unease at the slow realization that these actions might be becoming a habit.

Underneath her feet, the floor grows steeper and rockier. The stalactites shrink back towards the ceiling. This is a new stretch of tunnel, one not worn smooth by thousands of strudpods over hundreds of sweeps. A gentle lowing can be heard further down the tunnel.

Most lusii are omnivorous. Most have no problem eating and digesting troll, although some will refuse it unless it is unrecognisable. It’s taken a few pedigrees for Lynera to figure out what they will and won’t accept. She’s practically an expert now though, or at least considers herself to be one. Sometimes she wonders if this might be all she’s good at.

She clicks her tongue in the general direction of the squirmsnoutbeast. She still can’t see it, but feels a slight comfort when it calls back to her. Cloistered jadebloods technically aren’t raised by lusii, but this one seems not to mind her constant intrusions into its territory. Perhaps it’s because she always comes with food. Lynera checks behind her one more time before setting down the crate and clicking her tongue in front of what appears to be a dead end. 

Slowly, the wall of stone seems to shift until it becomes apparent that it isn’t made of stone at all. An eyeless face stares down blindly at the jadeblooded girl who nods curtly before turning on her heel to begin the long walk back to her respiteblock. The mole-creature smashes the crate against the wall with one of its enormous spade-like claws. What little of the olive liquid remains thin enough to cling to anything other than itself coats the dusty white fur and nails of the beast as it digs into its meal. After a few minutes, not even the crate remains. 

The squirmsnoutbeast is one of the less-picky disposal methods Lynera relies on.


	3. Chapter Two: Aglow With Barite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can make out a figure in the window watching you standing outside in the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 Warnings: Mention of Decapitated Head

“Go fish.”

Daraya Jonjet scowls at their younger cloistermate. “No way. There’s no way in hell you don’t have any spades.”

From her place on the floor, Wanshi looks up at them and grins. “I’d say you could look at my cards, but that’d be cheating. You’d have to forfeit.” In the hand unoccupied by her card is a book. Daraya has no idea how Wanshi does it. It wouldn’t surprise them if Wanshi is eventually put in charge of the caverns when the older jades are shipped offplanet. They might even be fine with that. She’s pretty darn cool.

“Do you have any sevens?” Daraya chews on their hair. It’s at an odd length...too short to pull back, but too long to keep out of their face effectively. Their foot taps at the ground restlessly. It isn’t the first time they’ve lost to Wanshi at cards, but there’s something about the younger troll winning over and over that seems uncanny.

“No sevens.”

_Dammnit._

It’s almost nightfall, and the pair have been awake all day. There isn’t any particular reason why either, the fact of the matter is that they’re a pair of adolescent trolls with both a general disdain for authority and a shared fondness for card games that tends to supersede the need for sleep more often than they’d care to admit. 

It still doesn’t make sense though, how Wanshi can keep beating them.Go Fish is a game of luck, not skill--and yet Daraya’s current record against her cloistermate is currently resting at about 102 losses to seven wins. That’s a bullshit number. There isn’t a single way that that shit can be anything but skewed, and they intend to find out exactly how Wanshi’s been pulling the wool over their eyes for all these wanes the two of them have been playing.

They don’t necessarily mind the fact that Wanshi’s cheating, especially since they aren’t playing for money. Despite that, they really do feel the need to understand how the flaming fuck the kid can keep beating them like this. It can’t be the cards, since Daraya’s bought two new decks since their game nights with Wanshi started. There don’t seem to be any mirrors or ways that Wanshi could see their cards either, and yet...they haven’t guessed wrong once all day.

 _Am I just that easy to read?_ Daraya rubs one of the faux-horns embedded in their bracelet. If they are, it’d be better to find out down here where there isn’t anything at stake. The kid doesn’t even play for money, and has turned Daraya down when they offer. She seems to just...genuinely enjoy playing. Wanshi’s attention seems to have returned to her book for now though. In a few hours or so, Bronya will be expecting them for breakfast. Everything is as mundane as it was yesterday, to the point where it seems impossible to really tell one night from the other. Aboveground, the moons rise and set; waxing and waning and pulling the tides along--but down here, nothing ever happens. To Daraya, it appears improbable that anything ever will.

The Go Fish games are a pleasant reprieve, though. It’s hard to feel concerned or uneasy at the concept of neverending sameness when all one has to focus on is a deck of cards.

* * *

Lynera Skalbi stands at the front of the small, cramped space one of the older jades decided should be “the study cave.” Even though those particular trolls have long-since left Alternia, Bronya seems to have decided to carry on their legacy by means of shoving academia down the throats of the younger trolls in their cloister. Daraya assures themself that when they eventually lead the group that there will be no schoolfeeding whatsoever. No skirts or bows either, although they don’t quite understand why yet. They’re only a wriggler, after all.

Since the last Exodus, the Jubilant Cloister’s numbers have fallen drastically. Apparently this is a problem, although Daraya can’t fathom why. They’re only a child, and no one bothers to explain anything to them. Even now, they consider this to be the root of all their problems. After Daraya, the second-oldest in the group seems to be a tie between two of the older trolls: Lanque and Lynera. Despite being only a few pedigrees of a sweep younger than Bronya, they both seem to have ceded leadership of the cloister to her.

Bronya Ursama is, to put it quite simply, a dictator. Her obsession with her work and with the life she’s entrusted with bringing into the cold, unforgiving world should be considered a veritable mania. Even at six sweeps old, Daraya doesn’t understand what her deal is. Bronya’s been gone for a few wanes now though, supposedly making her way to some other caverns to collect a sixth jadeblood for their cloister. Their group hadn’t been due to receive another, but due to a large series of mishaps that were supposedly too gruesome to speak of around Daraya a large number of the Dulcet Cloister had fallen victim to a troupe of roving marauders.

Lynera is still chattering at the front of the classroom, but Daraya isn’t listening. They couldn’t force themself to if they tried either. They do find themself drawn to the older troll herself, though. Skalbi's hands move in tight, agitated circles as she pontificates anxiously about something Daraya can’t even hear. She’s always in motion. Lanque is off somewhere else. He's apparently supposed to be standing watch over the Mother Grub, but it's more likely he went off somewhere to smoke. Lynera probably knows this too, and it certainly isn't helping with her current frustration.

 _Just shut up already._ Daraya closes their eyes, and drops their head to their desk with a dull thump. Lynera keeps talking in spite of this, almost as if she never noticed that Daraya was there in the first place.

* * *

Aboveground in the present, the moons scrape the horizon line as another day comes to a close. Parties come to an end, and trolls begin staggering homeward. Their lusii berate them for staying out if they're fortunate enough to still have them. Drones putter to life along the roadways and a cool wind sweeps through the desert as if nature itself were exhaling. Lights flicker on in the more populated areas of Outglut as those with jobs to attend to get ready for their days. The sounds of life begin as a quiet babbling, but rise and fall as time goes on. Everything is as it always has been, and even the chaos and missteps are planned. Every pitfall follows a predetermined design, and the pattern of eternity continues reinforcing its own sameness in a cycle of self-perpetuating propagation

Somewhere far away, Lanque steps out of a doorway with a noticeable crack in its frame with a disconcerted seadweller on his arm. The seadweller's face is flushed a deep purple, and his gills flap open and closed, gasping for excess oxygen he doesn't need. Lanque simply smiles and waves to the host of the party, and nods his head at the other departing guests. The fading light shines off the flowers pinned in his hair, and he looks the very picture of ephemeral beauty.

In this same twilit hour, Lynera Skalbi hides a plastic-bag wrapped head in a dumpster.


End file.
